


Erlebnisse

by boobeika



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Beauty - Freeform, Childhood Friends, One Shot, Poverty, Presumed Dead, War, outcasts, silver linings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-04 18:00:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15846483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boobeika/pseuds/boobeika
Summary: Erlebnisse.The experiences, positive or negative, which we feel most deeply, and through which we truly live.{a collection of short, nonsensical oneshots written by me}





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first attempt at actually good writing, so please be gentle. enjoy :)

Little by little, the storm slowly elapsed, melting away like the fragile icicles that once decorated the small village. The thick layer of snow turned to dust as the sun, no longer an element of the past, bade hello once again. Their eternal winter, of hopelessness and forgotten prayers, gone. The impoverished souls, laying dormant at every turn, finally arose, their survival a homage to the mercy of God. The world at peace once again.

He, born and raised in these diminished streets, bore witness to it all. The first plant, a wondrous rarity to their misfortuned eyes, grew in front of his own. His own two eyes, a deep brown that spoke of curiosity and determination, a hint of mischief, lost over time. They saw everything. Every moment, every glance, every story that remained untold to all but him. He, those brown eyes, saw it all.

With the jubilant celebrations afoot in the reanimated village, he felt the burden of uncertainty once more. Their transcendent recovery, a sweet surprise to their hopeless outlooks, came with a sudden disregard for the trials that remained. With the melted snow, the long winter behind them, the future remained a plague of uncertainty, the imposing reality of which was shoved to the back of their minds, replaced by the unreserved happiness the newfound summer had brung.

The small cafe in which he sat was, aside from his rare custom, in a state of complete abandonment. The establishment, once a hub for coffee dates and social nights, hadn't been opened up for several years, until he pried open the locks at an ungodly point of the morning. They said its owners had died a few years back. A ravage snowstorm, which had left the town in a state of further damage, had collapsed the ceilings of the owners' family home, drawing a sharp end to their lives as they lay in peaceful slumber. Now, though the food was off and the furniture remained damp, the windows allowed him a watchful eye on the celebrations, yet saved him from the risk of interactions with any of the ignorant souls who elected to start.

His thankfulness for this quickly lowered at the clearing of a throat not belonging to him.

"Kim Jongin" the person spoke. His smooth voice rang deep within the neglected walls. "I didn't expect to see you in the celebrations."

"You don't," he said. His voice, unlike the other, was soft, tender. It spoke of childlike curiosity, of timidness and quashed humour. Of a happy, innocent soul, ripped from its body by the cruelty of fate.

A deep chuckle rang out, swallowing the humid summer's air with its sweet sounds. "Is there a problem with this too?"

"They're thoughtless," he whispered.

"No, Jongin, they're happy. Aren't you?"

His foolish words elicited a bitter chuckle from the other. "No."

"You ought to be," the man replied, the tone of decisiveness hinting at his self-appointed authority over the boy.

"Well, I'm not, but you clearly are. So, go and be happy, stranger."

"That's not something I can do, dear boy," the stranger said with a sigh. "Nor is it something I want to do."

His words, coated in a familiar tone of loathing, struck a chord in Jongin. It was the same tone, of bitter resentment and doubt, which his own voice had displayed. Perhaps, he dared to wonder, this man was different. Perhaps his fate, which had ripped his innocence from him, torn away all the good in his exhausted heart, also destined this man's life to intertwine with own. And maybe, should God have sent his life down a different path, his mind would have pondered these thoughts. Unfortunately, neither event occurred.

With all the misfortunes which had befallen Jongin's life, there was no reason, no excuse, to mull over trivial, artificial matters such as love. Rather, his mind swirled with thoughts the man behind him, and all the ways he could get him somewhere else.

"Is there something you need?" His rapidly decreasing patience was evident in his tone.

A bitter chuckle escaped the man. There was no good humour behind it, no amusement at the boy's unfiltered observations. It was, simply, an acknowledgement.

"But I know you're here for a reason. No one comes near me unless they need something."

The weight of his words hung in the air. The truth in the observation stung. Kim Jongin was an outcast, a freak in every way one could be a freak. His every breath was met with disdain, the town's fearfullness for him manifested with every stolen glance, every rumour, every whispered warning to stay away. He was a freak, and that was that.

Silence filled the air, its bitter presence louder than any words which had proceeded it. The disheartening mood was lessened as the man's voice broke the painful silence. "I just wanted to see you again," he admitted, his voice so quiet it would have gone unnoticed to anyone else. But not Jongin.

He couldn't help the scoff that escaped his mouth. He hadn't the slightest clue who this man was. "I've never seen you before."

"How would you know that?"

"What?"

"In all the time I've been talking to you, you haven't turned to look at me once. You haven't even looked at my reflection in the glass."

Jongin shook his head. "Why should I?"

"Maybe if you looked, you would recognise me," the man suggested, his aura of authority ever present in his tone.

"Maybe if I didn't, you would leave."

Hollow laughter rang out, the synthetic reaction a pitiful attempt at hiding the indignation rising within him. His frustrations, manifesting in his disgruntled expression, did not go unnoticed to Jongin, despite him still refusing to view the man. The man's loud sighs served as a clear indicator for his mood. Despite his observations, Jongin couldn't, with all his might, summon a care in the world for the man's anger. "Go and celebrate, stranger, while you still can," he advised, turning his gaze to the crumbling coffee table in front of him.

"While I still can?"

"Good things don't last, sir," he said.

"So I'm 'sir' now, huh?" The man chuckled. Jongin elected to ignore the way his heart fluttered inside its cage at the deep sound.

"Go away," he grumbled.

A deep groan rang out, the man's silky, chocolate-like voice illuminating the dark, rotting walls.

Despite Jongin's disgruntlement for the man, his voice sent shivers down his spine, its soothing sound adding splashes of crimson to Jongin's mind of greys and blacks. It spoke of a privileged life, of a life far away from the deadly fumes of the factories, of the smoke from crackling fires, which invaded the throats of those who worked with it, turning their voices raspy and the breathing pained. The man behind him had clearly never laboured over a breath, never feared for his life as factory roofs crumbled with the falling of support beams. He seemed one of the few who lived a safe life. A world away from the life Jongin knew.

"Jongin."

The calling of his name brought the boy sharply back to reality. His head turned slightly towards the sound, the movement coming to a stop millimetres before the man's face would have come into view. His brown eyes found their focus on a mould-covered stool. He had no reason to look at it, no interest in the item, rather a desire to frustrate this man into leaving him in the silence he so craved.

"I'm not leaving, Jongin. You're not nearly as repulsive as you think you are," the man said.

Jongin couldn't help the snort that escaped his throat. "You're lying, stranger. Most of them want me burnt at the stake."

"They do, you're right. But, whilst you repulse them, your personality is not repulsive. But I won't pretend you're not irritating me now," he admitted.

"I have no interest in hearing how unrepulsive I am. I'm trying to repulse you."

If it were possible to hear movement, Jongin was certain he would have heard the man's eyes roll to the back of his head. Instead, all that reached his ears was a low laugh. "It's not working, so will you just cooperate?"

"With what?"

"With me."

"I don't even know what you want from me, stranger," Jongin said.

"All I want is to talk to you again," the man replied.

Jongin allowed a quiet sigh, turning his gaze back to the celebrations. The window, serving as his looking glass, was dirty and broken, but it was all he needed. " You are."

"And I want you to look at me."

"For what possible reason?" Jongin snorted.

"So that you can see who I am, and you won't act so hostile."

"I'm not acting hostile," he snapped. "I just want you to leave me alone."

The man gave a dry chuckle. "I will do so, if you want. But only if you look at me."

"Fine," he grumbled.

He turned, slowly. His mind lit up in anticipation, in a split second of nerve and uncertainty. He was certain he had never known this man, never once heard his deep, smooth tone in conversation. He did not know this man, never had. He was certain.

Until the man came into view.

He was exactly how Jongin remembered.

The same milky skin, pale like a fresh coat of snow on a crisp winter's morning. Soft brown eyes, staring into his soul, a soul of calm and serenity he had once known so well. His hair, short, black, unchanged since their last encounter. The same boy, the same mind of patience and tranquillity, now a man. The same boy, whom Jongin had presumed dead all these years, whom he had mourned for so long, stood in front of him, soft brown eyes staring deep into his own.

He must have been dreaming. This couldn't be true, couldn't be the reality. He knew, after all these years of neglect, of suffering, God was not that kind. And yet, here it was. A testimony to God's compassion. The only boy, only man, Jongin had ever loved. Right in front of him.

The name slipped out with his stolen breath, two words which Jongin had never imagined saying again.

"Do Kyungsoo."


	2. petrichor

The sun shines above them, shimmering rays dancing across the deep blue waters as their brothers and sisters gently wake all who still lay in peaceful slumber.

He sits crouched by the lake, slowly placing his clothing in the water and allowing the crystal liquids to cleanse the garments of the coats of the dirt adorning them. As a worker on the farms, his clothes are regularly dirtied by his grimy living, so the journey to the washing lake is one he takes frequently, so frequently he is certain he could complete it with his eyes closed. 

Today, he has an extra load, as he pulled off a successful business deal with Hanbyul, another worker with skin that shines almost as brilliantly as his own, to wash her clothes on her behalf in exchange for half of her lunch. He wonders if he should have requested less of her portion, for her load consists of a mere three items. Nonetheless, what's done is done. He ought not to feel contrite; after all, she was well aware of the size of her load when she made the deal, and only fools would revoke a deal which disproportionately benifts them. 

As the hours elapse, the boy lingers by the lake, silently eyeing the valley in which he is blessed enough to have spent these past years. It's a wondrous sight to this world of pained dishevelment. Its sloping hills, their luscious green reflecting in the pools of crystal water below, are said by the locals to have been carved by God himself, carefully curated with its never-ending forests and water gently cascading into the lake below. One could walk to the hills and stay among their heavenly surroundings until the inevitable sound of death knocks on their door, stay for the rest of time, a blissful conclusion to their troubled lives. It's a pity that so many will live and die, ignorant to the hand-crafted treasures laying so close, yet so far from their shaking grasps.

A woeful sigh elicits from him, wafting through the air with a sort of bittersweet serenity to it. He drags a bronzed hand through his darkened hair. He feels the drop of sweat trickling down his palm and into his already damp hair, the corollary of the sweltering rays projected across the land by the blazing sun. In the distance, he hears the gleeful chatter of the birds, happy chirps for a peaceful, carefree lifestyle of the skies. How he envies them. How he longs for their blissful way of life, free from labour and pain. For all the joy he finds in the farm, the unchanging companionship to drag him through his days, there's many a moment where he simply wants to fly away. He wants to be free, if only for a fleeting moment. 

Alas, the sweet reality he so craves will never quite be reality. Though he lives a life of tranquillity, of companionship and silent mindfulness, the free existence which has always had a place in his utmost desires lays just beyond his reach. 

He feels a wave of guilt crash on the shores of his good conscience, her perpetual discontent to the foregoing a testimony to his self-confessed ungraciousness for his good fortune. His gratidude and ungraciousness rises and falls with each passing moment, like a rollercoaster tumbling along the delicately carved hills. The harsh reality of outside life is an achingly familiar subject, for he was taught since childhood how lucky he is to be blessed with an existence within the gaping hills and rich scenery of his home. He knows how fortunate he is, holds an adoration for his home which goes entirely unrivalled, but he's always felt called by the birds, princes of the sky with so much freedom, so much excitement. Perhaps, one day, his time will come. One day he will find the same freedom enjoyed by those free the burden of labour. But not today. Not today.

The peaceful hymns of the birds come to an eventual close, rendering the steady swaying of the trees in the soft wind the only sound reaching his ears. It evokes an immediate a sense of calm, newfound tranquillity gently wafting through the gently swaying air. The emotional rollercoaster of his impossible desire seems to take a turn, leaving his distaste for his mundane life in brief solitude. It prompts thoughts of his luck, his good karma to have ended up in this life. It reminds him of his peaceful, safe life, a painful contrast to the impoverished souls laying just miles away. Their lives are so different, and he is so lucky. He ought not to take it for granted. The chance of coming into a world such as his own, amongst heavy odds of poverty and rampant violence, was slim, and yet it was offered to him. He doesn't suppose he deserves it. Doesn't deserve this simple yet rich existence, when all he wishes for is to be in the skies. But he can't push the thoughts out his mind, cannot, with all his might, expel his dreams.

And so, once again burdened with defeat and riddled with guilt, Kim Jongin trudges down the hill, drying clothes bunched under his toned arms as he enters the farm to the steady soundtrack of twigs crunching beneath his feat. 

Scarcely a head turns at his arrival, save the sunkissed woman of youthful exuberance, a small smile of half hearted gratitude gracing her soft features as Jongin drops her clothes in front of her, wordlessly taking his share of her lunch before heading to the fields to work his guilt away.

The raging sun, its sultry rays just as violent a heat as the early morning, blazes down on him as he uncomfortably crouches, bare feet press in lightly into the dry ground. His back aches as he hunches over the plants he works on, legs straining under the pressure. Nonetheless, he persists. 

Hours elapse, time a fragile mystery as it melts away under the blazing sun, yet his labour never ceases. The harmonious chirps of the birds linger in his mind, their mellifluous voices a bittersweet contrast to the farm, which lays in silence, aside from the pained groans eliciting from a frail old woman a few metres away from him. He offers her a small smile, of sympathy and heartache, but she doesn't look up.

He feels his heart wrench at her pitiful sounds. Wretched and pained, they are a commonplace on the farm, a familiar ache to their burning ears. She is a misfortuned woman; plagued with illness yet forced to work to support her young granddaughter. She has a stark determination to ensure comfort in the child's life, and so will work until her own death so she does not have to. Alas, it is a naturally fruitless mission, for the girl will be thrown onto the farm the moment her only provider is no more. It is the depressing reality of even the most tranquil of places.

When Jongin walks onto the farm the next day, the woman is gone. In her place, a young girl sits at the bushes, bitter sobs ringing throughout the farm. So is the way of the world.


End file.
